Tag: silent miscarriage

Disclaimer: this post deals with miscarriage, so please proceed with caution if this is an issue close to your heart.

I had a dream about you. You were swaddled all in blue, though I still don’t know if you were a boy or a girl. Knowing me, you still could have been either (I already had a picture ready for your nursery that talked about how all colors were baby colors). The dream was so simple and so peaceful. We were at home, just our little family. You were fussy, but content when I finally fed you. I carried you, I held you, I cuddled up with you and gave you tiny little kisses all over your chubby cheeks. We were happy. I woke up feeling content as I rubbed my tiny bulging belly, saying good morning to you.

I don’t know if that is the moment that you left me. You slipped out of my life as quickly as you joined it, silently and without production. I like to think that it was your final gift to me- your way of letting me hold you for the first and last time, for the only time. A chance to look at you, live out the dreams we had been planning. I like to tell myself that you wanted me to have that solitary moment to remember, a single space in time when the world was the way it should be. I like to think that you wanted it too, that last little thought before you slipped away from me.

I learned that I lost you on Monday. The doctor looked at me and I just knew before she even said those words. You were gone, and there was nothing I could do to ever get you back. “There’s no heartbeat” are the cruelest words in the world. I’ve never known that kind of pain. I’ve never felt that kind of helplessness. I was not merely broken, not shattered; I was crushed down to dust.

A few hours before I was planning your gender reveal, I was plotting out your nursery and looking at cribs. I was excited for this life we were going to share together; you and me, partners in crime, your daddy and the dog hot on our little heels. It broke us both to lose you, to lose the future we had planned.

Some people may not understand the love you have for someone you have never seen, but it was earth-shattering from the start. From the moment I saw those two pink lines I loved you with every fiber of my being, every atom in my soul. I was yours and you were mine, my love. I didn’t need to see you or hold you to feel like your mother. Now I am in limbo- one foot in two different worlds. I feel like a mother because of you, and yet I have no living child to care for. Does it still count when my sweet little baby had to leave so soon? Does it matter that I know what it felt like to feel you under my skin? To talk to you? To watch my belly grow? Does it matter when I never got to hold you?

How can I feel so lost without you? You were a part of me for so long, and yet it was just a fleeting moment. You were supposed to be safe. We waited to tell everyone, waited to know you would be with us forever and always. We did everything we could. I was 19 weeks on the day when my world shattered, but it felt like eternity, it felt like we had been meant for each other since the dawn of time. We should have been safe. The chances of losing you were only 1-3%. ‘Bad luck’ is what what they chalk it up to. We just had bad luck. What a phrase at such a time. It was meant to comfort, but it only left me with more questions. Why us? Why you? Why now? What was the purpose in all of this? How do we move on with our lives knowing you won’t be in it?

You deserved better. You deserved a chance at this messy life. And I wish I could have given that to you. I wish it had been in my power to fix it. I would give the world to hear that whoosh-whoosh of your heartbeat again. I would give up my forever if it meant that you could come back and live the life you were supposed to have. I would do anything for you. But I am only mortal, and I will never know why someone so special and so perfect had to be taken before they ever had a chance.

Perhaps it’s better that you weren’t touched by this cruel world. Perhaps it’s enough to know how deeply loved you were already. You were our little Jelly Bean, the hope in a world so full of pain. You will always be ours, you will always be the little love of my life. I don’t know if I could ever survive this again, but I know that I would do it all one more time just to know you, just to have you growing in my tummy for a little while. I would feel this pain all over again if it meant another moment with you. You, my dearest little love, were worth every tear and every single crack in my heart.

To anyone out there who has been there or who may find yourself on this path, to all of those who struggle with fertility and wonder what your future will hold: I see you, I love you. I know you only feel like you are being strong because you don’t have any other choice, I know the anger and the fear and the pain. I know you don’t think you could ever survive this. But you will. There is a silent army standing right here with you. One in four women will know this pain, and virtually everyone will be touched by it at some point in their lives. You are not alone, even at your darkest moment.

I am the one in four. I will never forget my little love. None of us will.

A Tidbit about Tipsy Typer

As tempting as it is to use this blog as an excuse imbibe with a few margaritas (blended, naturally), before clickity-clacking my way through a few new pages, that wasn't the intent. Write drunk, edit sober is more of an analogy on how to view the work. It means to write without limits, be bold, throw inhibition to the wind and dig deep. When you write you must embrace your passion. But when you edit, proceed with a meticulous hand. So rest assured, this is no alcoholic author's lair (though, if you offer a Blue Moon, I wont say no).